The Gardens of My Delight
by discreet quiet
Summary: AU, DarkLuke Luke Skywalker, the Imperial Starkiller, is bored with his life. So when an interrogated smuggler promises him excitement and adventure, will he give up everything? Story better than summary, I swear. Slight slash used. but it had a purpose.
1. The Business End of Bureaucracy

Disclaimer: I own nothing. George Lucas owns everything. I make nothing from this. The title isn't set in stone yet. This is AU, DarkLuke stuff. Most likely some slash later—if you don't like that sort of thing, run for the hills, my friend.

One: The Business End of Bureaucracy

If, in your travels through the galaxy, you are confronted by a storm trooper, it would be cause for mild alarm. If that storm trooper brought you before his commanding officer, it may be time for you to do a bit go quick thinking and see how fast you can get out of there. If you fail to do either and end up in the company of, say, a Grand Moff, it's probably time to beg for mercy (but don't expect it). There's a good chance that Grand Moff will bring you before Darth Vadar and Starkiller Luke Skywalker, and then there's nothing to do but make peace with your maker.

Luke Skywalker was generally easy enough to handle. He was a diplomat, or the closest you could have to a diplomat in the Empire, an ambassador of sorts who was considered very merciful for an Imperial officer. But his strange powers, especially when combined with that of his father, created a force that was know as the business end of Imperial bureaucracy.

Skywalker was the carrot. He was a lovely creature, blonde and blue eyed, with an easy but slightly icy smile. He was fluent in both the light and dark side of the Force, making him an apt healer, teacher, and mediator of small disputes. But he also had a devil of a temper when provoked.

When provoked, he was joined by his father. Darth Vadar was the stick—violent, aggressive, taking delight only in his own dark powers and the growing powers of his son.

They made their home aboard the Death Star, and it was here where a small, aging freighter with a hell of a lot of modifications was pulled aboard by a tractor beam.

"Good day, Lord Skywalker," the young lieutenant said, snapping his heels together briskly. "We have alerted Lord Vadar to the presence of the ship. We believe it to be carrying known Rebel leaders Leia Organa and Obi-Wan Kenobi."

Skywalker's face hardened visibly at the name, and he adjusted the black leather gloves over his thin fingers. "My father is meditating and is not to be disturbed again—I will handle this myself. Have you searched the ship?"

"Yes sir—we've turned up only a smuggler by the name of Han Solo and some contraband."

"Solo? Wasn't he one of our defecting officers?"

"Yes sir. Once we discover what has become of the Princess of Alderaan and Kenobi he will be executed for his treason."

"Good. I will see to the interrogation and execution personally. You are dismissed." The generally smooth, frigid voice had taken on a quiet but pronounced edge which all the officers knew well to precede a rage.

Luke Skywalker, first Imperial Starkiller, watched with a bitter smile as two white clad storm troopers dragged a stunned Solo between them toward the detention block.

"What the hell d'ya put in these blasters, vaporized Morpharine?" Han Solo tried to sit up, but his spinning head had him on his back again before he could even get up on his elbows. So hard a fall on the block-like projection that served for a bed in the cell was unfriendly to someone whose brain was already in chaos.

He heard a snort and turned to stare blearily at the dark figure in the corner. The younger of the two infamous Skywalkers was seated casually on a stool in the corner, dressed in smooth black with his gloved hands laid on his knees. "You know well that an opiate that potent is against Imperial law to possess—you were caught smuggling last year back to an uncharted settlement on Hoth."

"Yeah, and you were the one who set up the execution of the officer I bribed to get out of it." Solo's smile was much braver than he felt. "So tell me, what does Vadar and his Starkilling son want with some low life smuggler?"

"We want your cargo."

"My cargo?" he repeated with a slight sound of disbelief. "A Wookie copilot and thirteen gallons of the best Corillian booze a man can steal? That's all I got."

"No. An old man—" his eyes hardened—"and a young woman, perhaps some droids."

"Hey, I don't deal in human cargo," Han said, pushing himself up and opening his empty hands in front of him. "Chewie and I have a very strict moral code when if comes to slavery."

A rabid look came into Skywalker's eyes and he straightened in his seat, slipping off one of the black gloves. His hand, Han saw, was pocked and scarred…or maybe that was just the strange colors his eyes were picking up on things around the cell. "Not slaves. Rebels."

With that look and tone of voice, the black clad youth looked decidedly evil. _How could I have thought he was the easier of the two?_ "Some old man? What harm could he be? I've heard he's one of those Jedi sorcerers…I thought you and Vadar killed them all off, though…"

Fluid, graceful, and deadly as a panther, Skywalker sailed through the air and landed on Han, pinning him to the slab with a blow that started his head spinning all over again. _Well, there's the famous temper we've heard so much about,_ he thought dazedly.

"That man is no Jedi." The voice was low and dangerously controlled, but his blue eyes were frozen on Han's face with a vicious fire. "He is not harmless. He is a traitor and a _murderer._"

Skywalker straddled him, pinning him down with one gloved, clawed hand, and drawing the bare hand over his head with one extended finger. "Those traitors, those leaders of the Rebellion, were last seen with you in a Mos Eisley cantina." He spoke slowly, annunciating every syllable and not letting Han look away from his eyes. "You are going to tell me where they are, or else you are going to suffer a fate so wretched you will beg for death before it is over."

"Then we're gonna be here a long time, kid, because I have no idea. I didn't even pick them up, because I didn't want—"

But his voice broke off in a blast of pain as a singular blue bolt of Force lightening from Skywalker's finger connected with his Solo's chest. He writhed in unreal pain, scarcely able to breath.

"Damn," he coughed when the electric blue light stopped flowing into him. "And I was told you were the easier half of the Imperial dream team. Isn't personal torture without evidence a crime under the new code of the Imperial Senate?"

"Let those moronic Senators bicker all they like," he spat with a twisted grin, "But we—my father and I—we are the true power of this democratic Empire."

"Democratic Empire my ass," Han spat, "your Emperor is as much a figured head as your Senate. Everyone knows that the real power is held by—"

Again, he could not complete the sentence, choked this time by the hand around his throat closing. "You will show no disrespect toward my master," he snarled, "or I will kill you here and now."

"Okay," Han croaked, "okay, I'm sorry! Stars, have you got a devil of a temper!"

"Trust me, smuggler, this is only the beginning of my rage." He did not let up the strangle hold he had on Solo's throat, even when the door slid open and Darth Vadar himself entered.

"Luke," he said, "release him."

The room was silent but for the harsh sounds of Vadar's respirator.

"Yes father," he finally conceded, sitting up but remaining on Solo with curious eyes. The calculate rage was gone for now, although Han had a feeling that if he saw the pretty boy again it would be back.

"I will take control of the interrogation from here, my son," Vadar said decisively, "You may return to your studies."

Luke rose, and taking one last look at Solo, left.


	2. Drinking to a Deal

Disclaimer: Just a recap--These characters are the property of George Lucas, the lucky fellow, and don't belong to me. I'm also not making any money off of this strange little story. Also, my birthday is tomorrow, so as a present from me to you I hope to be able to transcribe 2 chapters for Wednesday, depending on the schedule of the rest of the family.

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Two: Drinking to a Deal

"Starkiller Skywalker is feeling rather ill this evening," the young officer explained in a quick, nervous voice, "but he still requested your presense."

_He keeps looking over his shoulder_, Han thought curiously. _Could this little visit with Skywalker be unofficial?_

They approached the door at a brisk walk, the sort that threatened to become a panicked run. With a last look over his shoulder the officer ushered Han inside and locked the door behind them.

"The prisoner, my lord, as requested."

"Thank you, Piett. You took great risk, and will be duly compensated, as per our previous engagements."

"Thank you, Lord Skywalker." With a snap of his heels Piett stood at the door.

"Aside from his other duties, Captain Piett is something of a smuggler for me--bringing me things I need and desire when other venues are unavailable." Luke coughed weakly and flashed Han the smile which created the only lovely thing about the Empire. He gestured toward a stool near his bed. "Sit."

"You're awful trusting," Han said, crossing the room cautiously to sit where instructed. "Inviting to your sickbed the guy you spent the evening tortured for information last night."

"If you try anything, Piett will kill you. Anyway, it would be fitting if you were to kill me now--the use of force lightening always takes a wretched toll on my health."

"Really sapping on the strength, huh?" Han muttered, glancing at the pale face nestled among the soft looking grey blankets.

"Not for the fully trained--the Sith, the Dark Jedi, their powers are mature enough to do it with no ill effects. My father and our Master can handle it, but I am a Starkiller, a neutral user of the Force." He paused for a moment for thought. "I also tend to have poor health, as you could probably tell."

"So that's what a Starkiller is? Just someone who can't decide whether they're good or evil?"

Skywalker stiffened visibly. "It is one who uses both sides of the Force. Simple tasks like moving objects or communicating over distances cause no ill effects, but so precarious a balance makes more difficult tasks very trying on the nerves. That is why the position is called a Starkiller--so risky a position would surely kill even a scar."

"I thought it was just another brutal sounding title the Empire came up with because you weren't a Darth."

"That, too, is the truth."

"So, Starkiller Skywalker--"

"Call me Luke."

"Uh, okay. So, Luke, why did you call me out here?"

"By now you must be aware of my father's plan to have you executed?"

"Yeah, I've heard."

"I must say, I'm intrigued by you, Han Solo. I am considering making an appeal to my father to spare your life."

"But I thought I was wanted for all that treason and stuff."

"It shouldn't be too difficult for me, as long as I promise you stay here. I want to keep you."

Han sat up with a start--he put too much stock in his freedom for a comment like that. "What, as a pet, like?"

"More of a comrade. A friend." Luke smiled winningly again. "That's why you're here tonight. Prove to me that you're worth keeping."

"Ah, how?" This, Han reflected, was how things got ugly. Stars only knew what perverse kinks a half-Dark Jedi could have up his sleeve.

Luke leaned close and a wicked smile spread slowly across his face. "Ever play Sabbacc?"

"Sure, but Sabbacc for two gets real boring, real fast."

"Piett can play." Luke gestured toward the man stationed at the door. "Piett, set up the table."

"Can you cross the room, sir?" Piett asked as he pulled cards and gambling chips from a small locked drawer. "Or should I set up on the bed table."

"I think I could make it," Luke said, pushing the heavy blankets off of him. "Han, give me your hand."

Relying heavily on the offered arm, he pulled himself to his feet, locking his knees to stay standing.

"My stars," Han whispered, looking down at the bare legs and arms, visible from the loose tunic and short pants formerly hidden beneath the bedding, "What the hell happened to you?" Luke's slender limbs were traced with horrid looking scars and what appeared to be old chemical burns.

"I have already told you, I am weak. This is part of the reason why." He gestured casually with his free hand. "They have been there since I was a child, and cover most of my body." He snorted indignantly at the alarmed look on Han's face. "Don't worry, Solo, it isn't catching. Help me to the table."

_God, doesn't he ask for anything? Probably used to having everything handed to him._

"Y'know," Han started carefully, "there's a real good fourth player floating around this station somewhere."

"Oh?" Luke said with an air of amusement.

"Not one of the officers," Piett said hurridly, eyeing Luke with at least a bit of worry. "It's considered below an Imperial officer to know such a game. I only know it from my youth--betting tree nuts and the like."

"Nah. Chewbacca."

"Your beast?" Luke raised a disbelieving eyebrow.

"My copilot. He plays a damn good game of Sabbacc."

Luke considered this a moment thoughtfully, then nodded. "Very well. If he is civilized enough to play I should very much like to experience a classic four-player game. Piett, bring it here."

"Yes Lord." The nervous, rabbity look came back to his face and he disappeared out the door.

"Let me be frank, Solo," Luke said once Piett was gone. "I would greatly regret losing you, but other than Sabbacc I have no use for your carpet of a copilot."

Han shrugged. "He's good in a fight. Not that you'll need that much around here."

"Precisely. So tell me why I shouldn't allow him to die."

"Well, for one thing, you and I have no deal without him. If he dies, I die too."

"Are you two that loyal to each other?"

"I'm not just ditching him. I owe him a lot."

"I see." Luke smiled. "Your loyalty to your Wookie friend doesn't give me any reason to keep him. So you'll have to earn his keep as well as yours."

"What d'ya want, like, a slave?"

"No." Luke sighed deeply, seeming very annoyed. "There are enough people around who seem to exist solely to make my life secure, comfortable, and dull. Like Captain Piett--I know my father is aware of his little smuggling missions. But he knows there are things he cannot justify giving freely, so he turns a blind eye to it. Neither of us have informed Piett though--it is amusing to see him behave so much like a persued rabbit."

"So then, uh, what do you want, exactly?" Han wet his lips nervously.

"Excitement." Luke's eyes glowed. "Adventure. I want your time, your stories of smuggling and space, of real men and tough women roughing it out on the edges of the galaxy."

"You're an officer, don't you get your share of excitement?"

"Not as much as you might expect. Because of my illness I am considered too weak for the interesting missions. I am a diplomat, the kinder, gentler officer because I am too weak to be a real officer."

"And nothing bad happens to Chewie?"

"He will not be bothered for anything other than Sabbacc games. Or whatever he can add to your tales." Luke eyed Han excitedly over his cards, looking more like an excited child than anyone dangerous. "Do we have a deal?"

"Can you get your guy Piett over the commlink? Tell him to get a bottle of the good stuff outta my ship. We'll drink to it."


	3. Like a Hothouse Flower

Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me, they belong to George Lucas. He's the one who makes the money off of these guys--my use of them is solely recreational. And, of course, I'm running behind on my typing. The idea of Han taking a Tatooine rent boy away was kinda abducted from the AU story "Every Harlot" by Lady Angel, which kinda sorta inspired this one. I really recommend it, although it can be rather racy and is not for the faint of heart.

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Three: Like a Hothouse Flower

Han Solo could not believe his incredible luck.

This time last night he was trying to sleep in a sterilely cold, brightly lit cell. Tonight he was in the doorway of Luke's chambers, watching nervously and silently as his host cooked supper.

No synthetics--he was standing over a heating element, mixing spices into a pot of thick stew. That was odd, and somehow a bit more alarming. He hadn't noticed Han yet, which left his guest with a sudden, nervous feeling that he wasn't supposed to be there after all.

But the dark figure at the stove turned suddenly. "Sit," he demanded.

Han moved cautiously away from the door and sat on the edge of a seat.

"I apologize about the soup," Luke said, turning back to the pot. "I'm the only one aboard interested in learning to prepare real meals, and this far into space I can only get a hold of a synthesized protein and freeze-dried vegetables. But the spices are good."

"You're probably the last person in a civilized system to cook over a heating element."

"It's something to do, at least. Certain others frown on it, though. Another of your tasks while living here will be sampling everything I know how to cook, and whatever I make up." He seemed satisfied with adding a new responsibility to Han's position.

But something didn't click. "Wait--I'll be living in here?"

"Well, obviously so. Were you expecting me to be kept in the detention block? Taste this." He dipped his finger into the pot and extended it towards Han.

Uncomfortably, trying to be as casual as possible, Han crossed the room and gingerly licked a bit of the thick brown substance from the outstretched finger. "Not too bad," he commented, "kinda reminds me of home."

Luke smiled. "I figured I could ease your concerns with Corillian spices. Get two bowls from that top cabinet," he ordered, turning his attention to a smaller pot of something grayish white and unpleasant looking.

"So what's the deal here?" Han asked as he brought the bowls down from the stack in the cabinet. "How'd you get Vadar to let you keep me?"

Luke shrugged, his back still to Han. "I asked, and he accepted. But you should know that you are grounded wherever I am. If you try to live in that miserable little freighter of yours we will have to kill you."

"Nothin'll happen to the _Falcon_ though, right? I just got her a few years back, I don't wanna lose her."

"No, we will leave the, uh, _Falcon_ alone. You could even tinker with it a bit if you desire. But if a single suspicious move is made, you, the Wookie, and the ship will be blinked out of existence. As though you had never existed."

"Great." _A grounded life is better than no life at all,_ he told himself, but for a moment he had the feeling that the walls were closing in on him.

Luke joined him at the table and filled the bowl in front of him. Han noticed that Luke's bowl, however, was about half full of the miserable looking stuff in the other pot.

"I can't really digest any animal bases proteins," Luke said quietly, glancing sadly at Han's bowl and moved a stack of ancient looking books and papers from the chair to the table. "And the spice plays wretched tricks on my stomach."

"Sounds like a dull existence--sterile walls, boring foods..."

"You don't begin to comprehend."

Han glanced curiously at the stack--the books and pages were covered in a language he had never encountered, but on top was a battered looking old holo. From where he sat it appeared to be the image of a tired, sad looking woman and an infant. "Mind if I look?" he asked, indicating the holo.

"Yes. I mind very much," Luke replied in a clipped tone, shooting him a look that could have thawed Hoth.

"Who is it?"

"My mother and twin sister. Died when I was very young." He seemed to want to be done with the conversation.

"I see." Han smiled and tried to find a new topic of conversation. "You cook like this for every prisoner you get to keep?"

"Actually, you're the first person I've ever been interested enough to keep someone around." Luke sipped a glass of something strange and opaque blue.

"Something else for your weakened stomach?" Han raised an eyebrow.

"If you'd like to be taken back to the detention center to await your execution that can be arranged," Luke snapped in a voice cold and deadly.

"Fine." Han turned back to his soup, and for a moment they were silent.

"Before we caught you in the tractor beam, what were your plans?" he seemed to have calmed down, and now his eyes glowed with a manic excitement.

Han sat back in his chair and crossed his fingers behind his head. "We'd just dropped off a load of spice to Tatooine--and it's a good thing, too, because we almost got boarded on the way there."

"Boarded? By space pirates? Something like that?"

Nah, by the crew of some Star Destroyer. I almost had to dump my shipment--which would have been a damn shame, because Hutts are notoriously attached to their spices. If I'd dropped it--"

"Hutts?" Luke sat up straighter in excitement and resting his chin on his knuckles. "The crime lords? You do business with the Hutts?"

"Yeah. They'll smuggle anything, and they pay really well. They just tend to have a temper when they don't get what they want. So you can imagine my reluctance to go back and tell Jabba that I didn't have his shipment. "Han was starting to enjoy the storytelling, slipping back into a time when he would sit and listen for hours to the old family stories. Now it was his turn to pass on his tales, although they were considerably less noble. "So I tell Chewie to punch in the hyperspace coordinates for somewhere just outside of the asteroid field near Tatooine while I stash the spice in the floorboard compartment." He paused for dramatic effect.

"And?" Luke had leaned forward eagerly.

"And then the _Falcon_ takes that moment to overheat the second hand power coupling and spray sparks all over rather than take us into hyperspace."

"They would have followed you, you know," Luke piped up, sounding slightly smug. He looked so much like a child then, a child listening to the stories of older and wiser family. Han decided he liked him better innocent than as a Starkiller. "It's standard procedure to follow a fleeing ship into hyperspace because that means they are hiding something."

"I know, but have you ever been inside a Star Destroyer in an asteroid field?"

"No."

"'Cause it's never been done. But the _Falcon_ is thin enough to fit between asteroids--we could fly out the other end, drop off our cargo at Hutt's palace and have a few drinks in Mos Eisley before they could even get around it."

"Clever thinking." Luke smiled.

"Standard procedure," Han said with a self-satisfied smile. "So anyways, I've got a defective hyperdrive, a Wookie screaming his head off for tools to at least make the stops start flying, and a crew full of officers practically knocking on the hatch. I tell Chewie to shut up and open a channel so I can talk to the Imperials."

"What did you say?" Luke had his eyes fixed on Han--bright, blue, and fascinated. He was regressing, it seemed, in what was probably the sweetest way Han had ever seen.

"Told them to come up, nearly begged them to." He paused for a moment. "Asked them to bring their medic, if they had one."

"Medic?"

"Yeah. Told them I'd caught something unpronounceable and violently contagious from a rent boy I picked up in some Mos Eisley cantina."

"Rent _boy_?" Luke chuckled derisively.

"Hey, the worse I could sound to those slugs the better--you know how discriminating your officers are. So I ask to have their medic up to have a look at me, my copilot, and the rent boy."

"Did they?"

"No, they put him on the line. I described the vilest things I could come up with--green puss, bumps, swelling, itching like the devil all over the naughtier bits of me and the imaginary rent boy. He said there was nothing he could do and they beat a hasty retreat."

Luke laughed. "They believed that? Didn't they know that storm trooper helmets would filter anything out of the atmosphere that could possibly get them sick?"

"You don't get out much, do you, kid?"

"I've already told you, no." Luke glared, the innocence and charm ebbing away. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"It just shows. You know those little details that no one else thinks of...but sometimes I think the bigger things are lost on you."

Luke coughed slightly, then shrugged, but his pride was obviously injured. In the same gesture his fingers twitched and a small fruit flew into his hand. A wickedly sharp looking knife followed from the other direction, dangerously close to Han's head.

"Kwava fruit?" Luke offered, cutting it in half and offering a piece toward Han.

"Aren't those awfully acidic? Maybe you shouldn't--"

"I'm not supposed to--they're difficult for a healthy person to digest. But to be honest, I actually sort of enjoy it."

"You enjoy the stomach pain that accompanies these little things? They nearly killed me the first time I had them..."

"Yes!" Something bottled up, something small and angry that had been gnawing away at him. "I'm quite tired of being pampered and tended to as though I was--was--"

"--a sickly child?" Han interrupted with some concern.

"Yes! I'm not a child anymore, and I don't want to live in so sterile an environment! I am perfectly capable of caring for myself!"

"Hate to break it to you, kid, but if sterility isn't your game you've been playing for the wrong team."

"Would you _please_ stop calling me that?" Luke asked, gesturing threateningly with the knife in his hand.

"Bother you that much, huh?"

"Yes." With a brooding look Luke pushed the piece of fruit forward quickly, stopping it just short of Han's face. Han pulled it of the air gingerly and nipped at the end.

They sat in awkward silence for a moment or so.

"Luke?"

He grunted.

"I don't think they of you as a child."

Luke didn't respond.

"Probably more like some kind of finicky plant--you gotta water it, and feed it and maybe keep it real warm and cozy or something...you're--" The half-formed thought was floundering miserably halfway out of his mouth.

"Like a hothouse flower?"

"Yeah, I guess. Something you gotta love a lot to keep alive."

Luke laughed mirthlessly. "Perhaps they ought to just let it die."


	4. A Passionate Display

Disclaimer: Remember that slashy bit I warned you about on the summary? Well, it makes its first appearance here. It's pretty small, but still, if it's the sort of thing that bothers you please accept my humblest apologies. And these characters still belong to George Lucas, and I'm still not making any money off of them--that hasn't changed from the previous chapter.

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Four: A Passionate Display

_Well how the hell did that happen?_

Tension was unusually high in the room, but the stars only knew why--the only thing Han could remember was waking up alone, hung over and fully clothed, in Luke's bed. Luke himself had been in the kitchen all morning, brooding and making a loud, rather angry display of cooking. He wouldn't look up when Han groggily asked him what year it was, and seemed to derive comfort only from making a big deal of ignoring Han.

This plan was fine with Han, who felt as though a particularly angry Rancor was trapped inside his skull and trying to make a break for freedom.

A late night Sabbacc game--he remembered that. Another flask of his good brandy, opened shortly after Piett had retired for the night. A few more hands of Sabbacc with Chewbacca, who was grumbling something about tipsy cubs and booze and having nothing to do other than play the occasional hand of Sabbacc.

When did he leave? Memory struck Han hard and fast, and with a groan he realized that after Chewie left, he had tried in his buzzed stupor to teach Luke how to play Hesteraan Sparts.

Sparts. That two player game involving so many cards and so much physical contact, a game only attempted by the very affectionate or the very drunk. Sparts, the potential explanation for the violent fury that had gripped the young man in the kitchen.

"Why is it," Han muttered aloud, running his hands through his messy hair, "that I have the distinct impression I've done something I'll regret?"

In the next room dishes were clattering and banging, and Han sank heavily to the floor. He leaned back against the wall, and the shattering of something glass amplified tenfold in his agonized head.

"Here." Luke, his face flushed with what was probably a fever, thrust a bowl of the greyish porridge-type concoction into Han's hand. "That ought to take the edge off of the headache you're doubtlessly suffering."

Slowly Han lifted a spoonful to his lips and tasted something like stale air. He pitied the kid more than ever. "Dare I ask what happened last night?"

Luke's eye twitched slightly. "I would tell you if I could remember."

"You only had a sip or two of the brandy, I think," Han said, rubbing his temples. "Did it go to your head that fast?"

The twitch became more pronounced, and Luke sat heavily on the floor in front of Han. "I thought I told you that I don't have much experience with drinking that sort of--"

"--holding your liquor?"

With a movement as fast as lightening Luke was back on his feet, arm stretched to the side and a knife gliding into his open hand.

Deciding it was best not to make any sudden movements, Han set his bowl on the floor and slowly stood. Suspicion confirmed--Luke was pissed at losing control. And it looked like that fury would be taken out on Han. "Ease up there, kid--I didn't mean anything by it. Obviously I didn't hold it too well either or I'd be in better shape."

Luke's eyes narrowed slightly, but he lowered the blade. "You are fortunate I didn't have my lightsaber with me--you would have been dead before you realized I had it."

"Come to think of it," Han began slowly, "I can't remember you ever using one in front of me. Don't all you Force-users have one floating around somewhere?"

"Yes. But I don't use it unless I am training or leaving the station. It feels awkward in my hands, heavy and wrong. I feel..."

"Uncomfortable? Like maybe you weren't cut out for all this Force stuff? Like maybe--"

"Perhaps you would be better off biting your tongue," Luke snapped.

Han grinned. "Hey what do I know? I'm just the guy with the blaster."

Luke kept his glare trained on Han. "Finish your food." He ordered.

Han reached for the bowl with a heavy heart. He managed to choke down most of the miserable stuff as quickly as his protesting stomach would allow. He decided that this was the hangover that all other hangovers bent to worship. People started wars over feelings like this. But Luke had been right--the worst of it was numbed by whatever he had been fed, and he felt his wits coming back to him.

"How're you feeling, kid? Bad as I do?"

"Not quite." Luke smiled thinly.

"Nah, really, you look kinda flushed. Maybe you oughta lie down or something--" Han's brain told his mouth to shut up, but the words just kept coming out. "I think that brandy hit you a little harder than you thought."

An angry violence overtook Luke, and in a blur of black cloth and clenched teeth a gloved hand slammed him into the wall and another brought the knife to the soft flesh of his throat. "Someone ought to have taught you the importance of being silent."

As fast as humanly possibly, Han clamped his hands on Luke's wrists and twisted, knocking the knife harmlessly to the floor. He wrenched Luke forward and shoved him against the wall and wrapping a hand around his throat. "Maybe someone should have taught you that a hangover does not dampen a Corrillian's fighting instinct."

"I can have you killed for this," Luke growled.

"Yeah, I'll bet you can." There was something dangerously hypnotizing about Luke's closeness, and the barely contained embarrassment at being bested so easily.

Luke struggled weakly, a sweat breaking out on his forehead. "If you kill me, your death will be slow and painful."

"Who says I want to kill you?"

"You're a bastard."

"But you like that in a person. It's like a prerequisite--a bastard with a few good stories."

"I resent that."

"No you don't." Han smiled, feeling his face drift involuntarily closer to the kid's.

"I hate you."

"Oh really? Then why haven't you killed me?" The better part of Han was seriously protesting the slow movement of his face toward Luke's. But the better part of him was not the majority, and the worse part was delighted that their lips were less than an inch apart.

"What are you--"

But Han cut him off, moving his hand from Luke's throat to press a silencing finger against Luke's lips.

"You're mad," Luke whispered, but without much conviction, as his eyes seemed to be closing without his consent.

"You need more madness in your life." Han moved his hand away and touched his mouth gently to Luke's.

It could have lasted mere minutes, or an hour, or perhaps even a day--time lost all its meaning to Han. For all his lack of experience, the kid wasn't so bad at this. Han ran his arms down Luke's sides, and in a fit of energy picked him up around the waist and pushed him against the wall. He felt dimly in the back of his mind that Luke's legs wrapped themselves around his waist, but he was too lost to tell for sure.

They ignored the tromping of boots outside, but when a tap came demandingly at the door Luke finally tore himself from Han's arms and yanked open the door.

"What?" he snapped.

"I'm sorry, my Lord, but Lord Vadar requests your presence on the observation deck. It relates to Kenobi and the princess in his care."

Luke narrowed his eyes. "Thank you. Thank you very much," he spat through clenched teeth. "Han?"

Han's name had the effect of a direct command, and with trepidation he followed Luke out of the room.

He had never been in attendance at one of these meetings between Luke, Darth Vadar, and the officers of the station. Piett looked as nervous as Han felt, as though he was supposed to be there bearer of bad news but didn't have the heart and the courage to lay them on Luke.

Luke, meanwhile, appeared to be busy undergoing a familiar and alarming transformation. He was no longer Luke, who played Sabbacc and wanted his freedom, but was in his professional capacity as Starkiller Skywalker.

The observation deck of the Death Star was large and sleekly built, and before the viewscreen of countless stars stood Darth Vadar and a tall, thin man with a narrow face. Grand Moff Tarkin, Han guessed, judging by the closeness of discourse he held with Vadar. There was also a small knot of officers, talked quietly and wringing their hands. _I pity whoever screwed up this time._

"What's happened?" Luke asked, walking briskly to his father's side. "Where are they?"

"They have managed to escape the wits of Admiral Ginx," Tarkin began, "and were lost."

"You _lost _them!" Luke turned on his heels to face Ginx and his fellows. "You let them escape!"

The officers who had been surrounding Ginx took a collective step backwards, leaving him exposed to the full wrath of Skywalker. He spoke quickly, in a shrill, cowardly whine. "An X-wing came into our radar and we were about to fire when Lord Vadar said he sensed Kenobi--he wanted us to pick them up and bring him aboard alive." He swallowed.

"And you _didn't_?"

"We couldn't!"

"_What about the tractor beams!_"

"We tried, Lord Starkiller, but they just disappeared from our radar!"

"_No ship the size of an X-wing has a cloaking device!_" Luke shrieked.

Han took an unconscious step backward, suddenly very afraid. What had this Kenobi fellow done to Luke to inflame him like that?

With a quick, furious extension of his hand, Luke caught his father's lightsaber from his belt and impaled Ginx effortlessly.

"Find them," he hissed to the stunned officers still standing around Ginx's corpse.

It was almost imperceptible, but the atmosphere of the room seemed to change a bit. Han's eyes were drawn toward Vadar and Tarkin. The bony face was twisted into a cruel smile, and from beneath the black helmet seemed to radiate a sense of pleasure and pride.


	5. Dark Force Rising

Disclaimer: You know the drill--characters belong to George Lucas, and he's the one who makes the money off of them.

* * *

Five: Dark Force Rising

Luke woke up in a cold sweat. It probably wasn't close to morning yet, but as he bundled his shivering body beneath the blankets he knew he probably wouldn't sleep through the rest of the night. Han was snoring contentedly from the next room--Luke could use some company at the moment, but he knew that the war call of a gundark couldn't wake Han up.

Han. Ah, what a miserable mistake that was. He couldn't perceive any attachment deeper than friendship from the other--although he knew friendship was very dangerous itself. Which made Han Solo a very dangerous person. The kind of person you let your guard down with, which is the sort of thing that gets you killed. But damnit all, he lost his control.

All in all, yesterday had not been a banner day for Luke Skywalker. His behavior on the bridge, letting his passions overtake his resolve...he pulled the blankets over his head. _Hide, close your eyes, maybe you'll fall asleep again and you'll feel better in the morning._ But now his face burned feverishly and his mind raced. He snarled furiously and kicked off the bedclothes like a petulant child.

He was washing his face in cool water when the call came--the soft, unobtrusive, mental call that meant his father was pleased with him and wanted to discuss why. The mild fever seemed to have settled itself comfortably on his brow. He dressed slowly, buttoning his collar to his chin and sliding the black gloves onto his hands--he knew his father did not like to see the scars, the tangible evidence of his son's weaknesses.

He followed the gentle, insistent Force calling down to the bowels of the Death Star. His father would be around soon, and he tucked his hand behind his back when he sensed a presence behind him.

"You have taken to your training well, my son."

Luke did not turn to face him. "I fear I am not learning fast enough, father."

"Under the circumstances your progress is most impressive." There was no change in his voice, but Luke could sense his approval.

"Thank you, father."

"I sense a dark force rising in you. Your conduct this evening on the bridge exposed to me the true strength of this force."

"I merely lost control. There was no strength or dark force involved." Luke's back stiffened and blushed hotly.

"No. You used your anger, your hatred, and strengthened your ability to control the Force. You have finally made your decision."

So that was it--Luke cringed inwardly, realizing that his father meant to finally bring him to the Dark Side. "I am not yet strong enough to control the Dark Side. I may never be."

"You under-confidence is a weakness I am eager to correct."

"You are already aware of what my weaknesses are, father."

"No. You will be strong enough. The Emperor has foreseen your destiny, and it is time for you to face it."

"And what is this _destiny_?" Luke was trying to keep the sharpness out of his voice, but he hated these discussions.

"You will end the conflict with the Rebellion and bring order to the galaxy."

"I see." Luke turned to face Vadar, feeling something very close to affection radiating off of the dark figure. "I don't share your optimism, father. When the time comes, I will be ready to join you, and we shall rule the galaxy together. And purge it of Kenobi and his rebellion."

The talked to trivialities--the Rebel base found on Yavin 4, the imminent destruction of the planet as a result, the recently operational battle station. Luke spoke easily of an eagerness for the battles to be over, his progress in lightsaber training, and when he would next discuss the future or his training with the Emperor. He said he was quite excited to progress in the Force, with a new emphasis on the Dark Side. They parted, and with a sinking feeling Luke realized he was still little more than a small boy trying to please his father. This was not a pleasing thought.

* * *

"Listen, kid, about yesterday--"

"Nothing," Luke snapped. "Yesterday morning was nothing but trivial accident. An instance of inflamed passion."

"Good. Great, as long as we're on the same page." Han smiled at him over the steaming cup. "Where did you disappear to for most of this morning?"

"That is none of your concern." Luke pushed his bowl away and rested his hands on the table, lacing his fingers. "Tell me why you left the Empire. And how."

Han shrugged. He was noticing a pattern--more and more the stories were becoming a way of ending awkward conversational moments. But that was fine--he'd take a moment of storytelling over uncomfortable chatter that could get him killed any day. "The life of an officer was interesting enough, I guess. But some things, well, some things just bothered me. Like slavery. Slavery's always gotten to me, but yeah, I could deal with it in the name of the outfit that employed me. The way some of the other guys treated them...it was intolerable. They'd get bored, and when there was nothing to do they'd get sadistic."

"So it was a moral reason for defecting."

"Sorta." He squirmed. "Anyway, so this one day I met this Wookie. Something about Wookies in hard labor, I never could stomach, but this one...anyway, he introduced himself as Chewbacca, and we started communicating as best we could. He was a pretty neat fella, and said he knew how to fly damn near anything with a hyperdrive. Could fix things, too. And he was damn miserable working in the Imperial mines. I was helping oversee a spice mining operation at the time. So, I busted him out and stole a ship."

"That easily?"

Han laughed. "Not quite. When they found I was trying to defect with a stolen ship and a stolen slave, the sent about half the fleet after us. I dunno if you've ever been inside a TIE fighter, but it's damn cramped quarters for one grown man. Shove a Wookie in after him and see how easy it is to fly the thing, much less defend yourself. So I got some help."

"From who?"

"An old friend--guy called Lando who owed me a few favors. At the time he was working on a questionably legal spice operation of his own nearby. So naturally he had some pretty good defenses floating around in case the Empire decided to get neighborly. He thought I was a legit fighter though, even though I'm screaming to his command center 'hey, Lando, remember me? You owe me after Ord Mandell, and if me and this Wookie don't get out of here soon I might not make it out of here!' Course, it didn't help that I had that half the fleet screaming after me. He took a few shots at me before realizing what the hell I was saying and that I seriously needed some help. So I pretended that Lando's little fighters had gotten my wing and I spun a tight circle toward the camp--the kind of spiraling that nearly made Chewie toss his lunch--crashed the fighter in the desert and ran like hell to what I hope was Lando's control center."

"And they left you in?" Luke leaned forward, his eyes gleaming.

"They better have! I got a hell of a warm welcome from Lando, a strong drink, some work done on my ankle, and the Sabbacc game that won me the _Millennium Falcon_.

Luke smiled. "That's quite an impressive tale."

"Heh, thanks. Think you'll ever be allowed out of your, uh, gilded cage for a good time?"

"Gilded cage? Impressive term for a smuggler."

Han shrugged. "I've lived with you for the past few weeks--you're starting to rub off on me."

Luke laughed. "I don't anticipate being released any time soon. I suppose..." he closed his mouth quickly, then opened again, but seemed to have nothing to say.

Han leaned back in his chair. "You okay there, kid?"

Luke shook his head. "Very soon," he began slowly, "I fear I will be undertaking a very difficult and dangerous journey. Whether it is my choice or not."

"Huh?"

Luke didn't answer.

"Ah," Han said, "so it's something Force-like. Something I have no business knowing about."

"In a manner of speaking."

"Listen," Han said, leaning closer and dropping his voice, "if you're being forced into something and you want out...I can smuggle you out of here easy as that." He snapped his fingers.

"Don't even think about it," Luke said serenely, seeming to regain his composure. "We will kill you."

A clattering of boots outside the door. Luke opened it, to be greeted by frantically rushing officers and a flustered looking Piett looking in at him. "Lord Starkiller," he said hastily, "your father demands your immediate presence. The rebels are attacking the Death Star."


	6. Excitement AdventureandReally Wild Stuff

Disclaimer: More of the same. Characters belong to George Lucas, and I don't make any money off of these stories. I'm paid in the occasionalreview, and in seeing my work up on the net for anyone to find. This is the last chapter of this story, and the next installment, probably called _As the World Falls Down_, is on its way.

* * *

Six: Excitement, Adventure, and Really Wild Stuff

Luke was coldly furious. "You will be staying with me, as per our deal."

"Like hell I am, kid! I'm not leaving here without Chewie, and I sure as hell ain't leaving my ship on a doomed station!"

Luke laughed coldly. "How much of a chance do you think these Rebels have? They've started attacking the Death Star with X-wings!"

"I'm not takin' any chances. If you're smart you'll come with me." Han was storming around the room, trying to pack belongings before realizing he had nothing of value in the room.

"They'll--_we'll_ kill you!"

"That's a risk I'll just have to take." He started out into the crowded Hall, but Luke chased after him and clamped onto his arm. "You are staying with me."

"Then welcome to the Millennium Falcon and enjoy your trip." Han fixed Luke with a lopsided smile.

Luke flagged down a passing officer, apparently of some import. "Where is my father?"

"He asks that you join him on the man bridge to see the attack, and then that you leave the station."

"Do they have that much of a chance?" Luke asked incredulously, choosing to ignore Han's smug smile.

"Lord Vadar does not wish to take any chances, Lord Starkiller."

"I see. Come, Han." He pulled on Han's arm and led him, protesting to the bridge.

Han did not feel this was the best plan. He had a smuggler's intuition, and every sense was tingling with the anticipation of disaster. Time to leave. But somehow, he ended up on the bridge at Luke's side, watching little specs of X-wings dodging fighters and occasionally disappearing in a blast like a firework.

Luke laughed softly at Tarkin's side. "For this they want to evacuate us. For these pathetic fighters. What do they have against us?"

Tarkin was silent, but seemed to be in agreement with Luke's appraisal of the situation.

"Where is my father?" Luke asked again, looking at the officer.

"I have just been informed that he has gone to his personal TIE fighter."

This sparked Han's tingling senses. "Eh-what?" he muttered aloud. _Something's up if Vadar is fighting personally._

"Lord Starkiller, we must get you to the ship," the officer protested. His air of authority gone, he suddenly looked young and painfully inexperienced. And to Han, the tiny legion of Rebel fighters seemed suddenly seemed more powerful than anyone else on the Death Star could imagine.

Han looked over to Luke, and could see that he too suddenly understood the frailty of the station they were standing in. "I'll need a moment," he said softly, "to gather some things."

He left hastily, with a determined step obviously meant to hide his anxiety. Han darted after him.

_Get out of here, Solo_, Han told himself, _grab Chewie and run. What are you doing chasing down some kid?_ But he knew he'd developed a loyalty to Luke, and the Corillian sense of loyalty is an irresistible impulse--it was like he was telling himself not to breathe.

So instead, he followed Luke down the hall, swearing and demanding they find Chewie and jet _now_.

Luke didn't reply, and didn't even acknowledge his presence until they were outside of the room that had been their home. "If there's anything you need," he said, "get it now. Material comforts will be supplied by the crew of the ship."

"Nah, they'll be taken care of by what's on the _Falcon_. I'm not going with you, remember?"

Luke sighed deeply, and discreetly palmed the battered holo of his family off of the table. He tucked it into his pocket, and Han felt it wiser not to comment.

"I'm gonna go find Chewie--see you in the next life, kid." Han extended his hand. Luke shook it solemnly.

"You've been a good friend, Han Solo. Thank you."

"No time for the mushy stuff, kid. Where d'you think they'd stick a Wookie?" A sense of urgency was slowly creeping into Han's voice, much against his wishes.

"Check the detention block." Luke turned briskly and started off with a military precision, but Han pulled him back.

"Detention block? Where the hell is that?"

"This way," Luke grumbled, leading him at a run down the corridors and lifts to the center of the station. He would be sorry to see the Corillian go--it was strange to consider that, prior to meeting him, he could not imagine so close a connection not formed by blood, and now could not imagine living without it.

"Han--!" he called frantically, before realizing he had even spoken.

"What?" Han was studying each cell, opening every door he could and liberating whoever was inside.

Luke opened his mouth, but nothing came out. "I-well--"

"Make your point fast, kid." They could hear Chewbacca behind the door, but the lock was stuck. "We're running out of time." He exploded into the profanity of four major languages, kicking the door violently.

Luke closed his eyes and flicked his wrist with a look of concentration. Protesting, the mechanism broke and the door slid lazily forward.

Chewbacca moaned loudly and rushed to the door.

"C'mon, pal, we're breaking out of this place." The Wookie showed no signs of moving, and instead protested loudly.

"What the hell are you stalling for?" Han cried.

"Please don't tell me it wants to stay..." Luke whispered in alarmed exasperation. The situation around them was increasingly frantic.

Chewie groaned and snarled at Han.

"Alright, go get her," Han yelled, rolling his eyes, "meet us at the _Falcon_!"

"Us!" Luke spat, "What us? We're not leaving together!"

Han dragged Luke back toward the docking bay, spitting with frustration. "Leave him alone for a few days and suddenly he finds some female he just can't _bear_ to leave without...!"

"Are there others of his kind on board?" Luke's question was genuinely curious.

"You don't notice much, do you, kid? Wookies _built_ this bloody thing. They'd still be building it if it wasn't approaching its death throws."

"Don't be absurd," Luke muttered, but the arrogant confidence in the technology of the Empire was fleeting.

"Trust me kid, smugglers and womp-rats _know_ when something's about to go down."

They reached the docking bay at a frantic run, and there was the _Millennium Falcon_, like a battered light at the end of a long tunnel Han had been trapped in. She was freedom, she was liberty, and she was all his once again.

But a young officer in Imperial drab beckoned Luke toward a Star Destroyer, pulling him from where he had clamped his hand on Han's arm.

"C'mon, kid," Han said, his eyes locked with Luke's. "You're life's so closely cared for. It's like-uh--"

"A garden." Luke's eyes were glazed, and he was obviously somewhere else.

"Yeah," Han said, "a garden. Get out--go pick wildflowers or something!" Ah hell, he was horrid with metaphors, and he could feel any chance he had of grabbing this kid slipping away...

"Why?" Luke asked. His doubt was almost tangible--no matter how much he talked about wanting his freedom, Han suddenly understood--this was all he knew.

"I can't teach you your Force stuff or anything neat like that, but I can give you what you've always wanted. Excitement. Adventure." He paused. "And some really wild stuff."

Han reached forward and, holding his breath, Luke grabbed it.


End file.
